


where the light scatters

by tinystreetlamp



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Non-Famous, Falling In Love, Happy Ending, M/M, Music, Musician Louis Tomlinson, Poetry, Smoking, Strangers to Lovers, The Fault in Our Stars References, Zayn Malik has a Soundcloud, no beta i left this the way zayn left one direction, they still make music
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-22
Updated: 2021-02-22
Packaged: 2021-03-18 17:35:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29613000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tinystreetlamp/pseuds/tinystreetlamp
Summary: In another universe, Zayn and Louis meet in the bathroom of a club, quoteThe Fault in Our Starsat each other and light their cigarettes.
Relationships: Zayn Malik/Louis Tomlinson
Comments: 8
Kudos: 9





	where the light scatters

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sarcangel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarcangel/gifts).



> I started writing this in 2019, and it may or may not contain physical pieces of my heart and a copy of my soul in HD, but that's okay.
> 
> (No abyss is infinite.)

Soft guitar music feels like a warm touch on his skin, the bass and bone shattering drums echoing through his heart. Zayn stands to the side of the crowd, by the wall, away from the people jumping and dancing in front of the small stage. The painted black walls make him feel like a shadow, and although he can’t quite remember why he came, everything’s fine, for now. Or something.

The music changes, grows quiet. The lights on the stage turn red. Zayn’s attention is immediately caught by a singer stepping up to the front, facing the crowd, mic in hand. He’s got dark hair and his arms have hints of ink on them, but Zayn can’t be sure in this light. Part of the crowd turns to the singer, but most just keep moving, slower now. It’s really not dancing, what they’re doing, except it kinda is.

_ “You’re a nightmare,” _ the singer starts, softly, and has all of Zayn’s wavering attention,  _ “on the dance floor, and you hate me, and I want more…” _

The song sounds aethereal in the basement of the club. Zayn finds himself straining to catch every word, the accent of the singer familiar enough that he thinks he understands everything. Despite the heaviness settling further in his mind he finds himself swaying rhythmically, mimicking the crowd. Isn’t the whole purpose of going to a club at, what, 3am? 4am? to lose yourself? Be free, and all that.

The song ends as a whisper and Zayn wants to listen to it again, wants to lie down with headphones and this song on repeat, wants to know what made the singer write these words.

The band is playing their wordless beats and guitar solos again, and Zayn loses track of where the singer went. If he were braver, he’d look for him and talk to him, about music, and death, the like. But he’s not.

His fingers itch for a cigarette, and while his mouth still tastes like the cigarettes he smoked in the afternoon, too long ago, he decides that the nicotine was worth it. Not really, of course, smoking was a terrible idea for anyone who ever wanted to sing, or anyone who didn’t want lung cancer and a whole lot of other diseases, but Zayn was lonely, and miserable, and sad.

He walks back up the stairs, finds nobody paying attention to him, and instead of braving the night outside goes up one more flight of stairs.

There’s nobody up here today, the upstairs bar deserted, the small stage slash DJ booth empty, and dust and plastic wrappers cover the floor. That’s all right, Zayn is just here for the toilet. There’s a window, and he knows it’s the smoker’s spot. Illegal, yes, as the club didn’t allow indoor smoking, but none of the regular staff ever visited their public toilets during the night.

The bathroom is empty. It’s technically still summer, but the air is chilly when he opens the window. He’s lighting a cigarette and breathing in deep, closing his eyes and breathing out into the night. He almost feels the dim light from the yellow street lamp in warm rays over his skin.

Smoking is like, his thing. He loves it, but knows it’s a terrible idea. Duh. Of course it’s a terrible idea.

Sometimes he can admit to himself that that’s the reason he likes it.

The singer who performed, he probably doesn’t smoke. Zayn should aspire to live healthily. He wishes he got the singer’s name, or just the actual title to the song. If it’s even a song he can find online.

He sighs heavily, notices he’s smoked his cigarette down to the butt. Zayn unceremoniously drops it out the window into the alley. Yes, yes, littering, the environment, memento mori… Zayn lights a second cigarette. Living is exhausting and cigarettes are too expensive. He adjusts his position leaning against the open window when something catches his eyes.

Almost in arm’s reach, leaning against the wall and watching him, is the singer from before. He’s got a cigarette between his lips, and blue eyes focused on Zayn.

Zayn freezes. Somehow the light from the street hits him in the perfect angle to highlight his cheekbones, and Zayn wants to explore those lips with his mouth. And touch the dark brown fringe, brush it away from his striking eyes.

Zayn miraculously doesn’t do anything embarrassing and holds up his lighter. “Want some fire?”

The singer shakes his head, smiling around the cigarette in his mouth. It should not be attractive. He shakes his head, lifts his hand to his mouth to remove the cigarette.  _ “It’s a metaphor, see: you put the killing thing right between your teeth but you don’t give it the power to do its killing.” _

Zayn stares. He thinks his mouth is actually open, and he blinks a few times to clear his thoughts. The singer is still in front of him, smiling crookedly and hot, and oh, by the way, those were definitely tattoos on his arms.

“I’m Louis,” the singer says, smirking. “That was a quote from –”

“The Fault in Our Stars,” Zayn finishes. “I love it, I’m just.” He lifts his own, lit, cigarette.

“And I’d actually like the fire too, please,” Louis says, wincing. Zayn lights Louis’ cigarette.

_ “Pain demands to be felt,”  _ Zayn quotes quietly, like a prayer, watching Louis take a drag, his cheeks hollowing, eyes closing. It’s another quote from the book, one that tumblr wrote across virtual skylines and tattooed on virtual hearts.

Slowly, Louis breathes in, and slowly, he breathes out. His eyes are so blue, and Zayn feels like he’s entered a different universe.

It’s like an alternate reality where Hazel Grace Lancaster is a man in his early twenties, depressed, lonely, miserable, sad, making bad music on the internet and failing at life, and Augustus Waters is a rock singer, maybe, probably, with the same blue eyes and dark hair and cheekbones and smile Zayn’s always imagined. Not movie Gus, this right in front of him is  _ book  _ Gus, and his name is Louis and he lights his cigarettes and if Zayn wouldn’t have held his own burning death delicately between his fingers he’d want to properly cry himself to sleep.

Just for the principle of it.

“I’m Zayn,” he says instead of curling into a ball and screaming.

“We all want to die sometimes,” Louis says. “Hazel will just have to forgive me for ruining my lungs.”

“And your voice,” Zayn says, because he thinks Louis might understand his (ir)rational fear.

“Especially my voice, smoking is terrible for singing,” Louis agrees, appearing actually worried for a second. Then he takes another deep drag and his shoulders relax. “Fuck it, though. The planet’s gonna burn up anyway.”

Zayn can’t help himself, he laughs. It’s quiet, and makes him cough a little, but damn. Isn’t that so true it hurts? He looks at Louis just to find his eyes already on him, and he thinks – he thinks that he’d fall in love with Louis as easily as he fell in love with Augustus Waters.

The last drag of Zayn’s cigarette burns in his throat and he relishes in it. It’s an ache he’s more than familiar with.

“Zayn,” Louis murmured, tasting the name on his tongue. Then, louder: “You got a phone number to go with that?”

“Only in exchange for an audio of that song you performed earlier,” Zayn says, but he accepts the phone Louis hands him and puts in his numbers.

“‘Kill My Mind,’ huh? Yeah, I’ll text you the demo,” Louis answers, taking his phone and immediately typing away.

Zayn takes a drag. Closes his eyes. Remembers Louis is standing in front of him, in all his otherworldly midnight-glow and Zayn opens his eyes to find Louis already looking at him. Louis grins, and Zayn can’t look away. Is this how Hazel felt around Gus? Is this a feeling that will fade with the stars come morning?

He shivers lightly in the breeze. He should visit his mum, he decides. She gives the best hugs. Maybe all mothers do. Or if they don’t, maybe all mothers should. Stepping away hurts everytime, and some things stay unsaid. Maybe the hug says some of those things, or the offer of tea that follows, and the invitation to share – some part of existence. Zayn thinks of his sisters, always looking up to him no matter what, and all he can do is be there.

“What are you thinking?” Louis asks, and Zayn notices his lips formed a tiny smile.

“My family,” he answers. “They’re… good. How’s your family?”

“I have younger sisters,” Louis says, a light behind his eyes lit. “They’re the best.”

“I know, I have younger sisters too,” delighted, Zayn leans back against the wall. Louis mirrors him. Now there’s just the window between them, and the ray of light the street lamp casts.

Zayn takes one last drag from his cigarette, wondering if Louis’ lips would taste of smoke, if he kissed them.

“I’d invite you home,” Louis stubs out his cigarette on the windowsill, “but I’m afraid I haven’t washed my sheets in at least two months and I don’t even know if I own a vacuum, but I think I’d like – I’d like if we, like, meet up sometime. If you want.”

“You can come to my place in the afternoon sometime this week,” Zayn offers because there’s no way he can let this man walk away after what he just offered. “I have a bit of recording equipment at home, and my mum always buys me Italian coffee, so I can offer you that.”

Louis laughs, a short burst coming directly from his chest. His smile is brighter than the sun, here in this dirty bathroom. “I’ll come.”

  
  


And he does. The next day, Zayn wakes earlier than he wants, but his stomach is empty because he skipped dinner one too many times this past week, and should really do something about his eating habits.

His fingers itch for a cigarette, but he turns to his phone instead to text Louis his address, his breath getting caught in his throat when he sees the messages there.

_ it’s louis! hope this doesn’t disappoint you love _ _  
_ _ killmymind.mp3 _

‘Love?’ How… British of them. Zayn doesn’t know if his heart twinges in pain or longing.

Zayn gets out of bed to connect his phone to his speaker and proceeds to lie down on the floor, listening to Louis’ voice and guitar.  _ The devil in my brain, whispering your name… _

No thoughts come to Zayn, Louis’ voice is all he needs at this point in space and time. 

When the song is over, Zayn taps the repeat sign and does it all over again. Then again, but this time he does get up to drink a glass of water and starts preparing coffee.

He eats a brown spotted banana for breakfast.

When he thinks he can pause the song, instead of writing a text message he calls.

“Hello?” It’s on the fifth ring that Louis’ scratchy voice answers. “This is Louis Tomlinson.”

Zayn doesn’t know where to start.

“Hello?”

_ “My thoughts are stars I cannot fathom into constellations,” _ Zayn says finally, because it’s true. And a book quote worked the night before, didn’t it? He’s thinking too much and feels too much and it’s all so confusing and he hasn’t been able to really think in days.

“... Zayn?” Something in Louis’ voice changes, like he’s both unsure and happy.

“Yeah,” Zayn sighs. “Your song is really good.”

“Thanks,” Louis laughs, “though if you want more music, I’m afraid this is the only song I’m ready to share with other people. I can only offer to show you my soundcloud favourites, if you want?”

It’s Zayn’s turn to laugh – or, more accurately, let out all the air in his lungs at once.  _ Swoosh. _ “If I want?  _ If?  _ Of course I want. Are you cool with coming to my place later?”

“Yeah, let’s listen to our favourite music together.”

“Is that’s what it’s called nowadays?” Zayn smiles, opening his fridge to search for more food, but finds nothing but a piece of butter and an empty glass of jam.

Louis brings food, when he arrives. He stands in Zayn’s door, sheepishly smiling and a family sized pizza in his arms. His fringe looks like it could poke him in the eyes any moment.

Zayn, despite feeling like his face is being stretched in new ways, returns the smile. He doesn’t smile often these days, but damn, this feels nice. Maybe it’s the daylight streaming through the windows, his flat feeling just a bit warmer. Maybe it’s the warmth of the pizza. Or maybe this, him and Louis, Louis and him, is the universe saying  _ it’ll be okay, tiny humans. _

Zayn opens the door wide and lets Louis walk past him, closes the door, and when Louis shyly offers him the pizza, Zayn thanks him.

“You’re welcome,” Louis drawls. “But I haven’t eaten yet, so please share with me.”

“Of course,” Zayn leads him into the kitchen, “after all, sharing food is like, one of the most wide spread love languages on the planet.”

Louis doesn’t answer, and Zayn needs a moment to process what has just left his mouth.

“Uh,” heat rises up to his face. Zayn meets Louis’ widened eyes. “My dad always tells me to share my food with friends, even strangers. It may be a cultural thing?”

“Yeah,” Louis clears his throat. “I’ve never shared food with a stranger before.”

“Good thing we’re not strangers, then.”

They sit across from each other on the table. Zayn moves one of his succulents to the side to make space for the pizza. He doesn’t get them plates. The pizza is already cut, they can eat with their hands.

Louis looks around his flat, the dusty bookshelves half empty and half filled with second hand books and CDs, the shabby sofa and the scattered papers on the coffee table. Louis’ gaze lingers on the bedroom door and the windows both. The windows have yellow and lavender curtains pulled aside, with some of Zayn’s more resilient cacti sitting on the window sill.

“So,” Louis says after the first bite of delicious pizza. He chews and swallows before continuing, and Zayn can’t help but think his mum would like him, despite the bad boy aesthetic Louis seemed to have going on. “I promised my favourite soundcloud songs, didn’t I?”

“Just a second,” Zayn says. He gets up, wipes his fingers on his shirt and heads for the coffee table. Somewhere, underneath it all, is the speaker he used to listen to Louis’ song. It’s better than a phone, and if Louis’ favourite music is anything like the music he writes, Zayn wants a good speaker.

“Thanks,” Louis murmurs when Zayn hands him the aux connected to the tiny box.

Zayn sets the speaker down next to the succulent and turns to his abandoned pizza slice. Anticipation makes itself a home in his gut, but so will the pizza.

“I’mma just… yeah,” Louis presses play.

It’s a soft, quiet and melodic guitar tune, and then a woman’s voice starts singing. Her voice is steady and filled with yearning and sadness, her words are of forgiveness and goodbye and  _ hello.  _ The guitar stays the same for a few minutes, the poem repeated without any verse chorus verse scheme. It ends with a chord that takes a second to fade away.

Zayn wants to cry, but Zayn also knows the original poet.

“It’s a poem by Rumi, right?” Zayn speaks. His pizza slice is still in his hands. He shoves it into his mouth.

“You know him?” Louis asks, surprised.

“I had an Old Arabic Poetry phase,” Zayn shugs. “Happens, I think. I’m Muslim, you know? And the dude definitely knew a thing or two about love.”

“He did,” Louis agrees. “I’ll continue with the playlist, then.”

“Go ahead,” Zayn reaches for another piece of pizza.

The next song is just as quiet and melodious, and it takes Zayn an embarrassingly long time to realise.

It’s a good moment after the bass drops and Zayn’s own voice fills the room that Zayn looks at Louis, the pizza frozen halfway on the way to his mouth. “Louis,” Zayn says.

Louis doesn’t seem to hear him. He’s chewing slowly, half turned to the speaker, swaying softly.

And Zayn – Zayn can’t look away.

Because that’s  _ his _ music filling the space between them, that’s  _ his _ music and Louis thinks it's good enough to show his new friend, that’s  _ his _ music and Zayn has no idea how to react to that.

“Yeah?” Louis asks when the song is done, as if he just realised Zayn said his name.

Zayn opens and closes his mouth, like a fish. “I – that's Bus One Productions,” he says.

“Yeah?” Louis repeats, his face breaking into another bright smile.

Zayn wonders if the sun decided to live inside a person on the day Louis was born.

Not knowing what to say and also knowing he needs to tell Louis about his music, he gets up, washes and dries his hands, and gestures for Louis to wait a moment. Louis, confused, leans back in his chair and reaches for another slice.

Zayn returns from his bedroom with his laptop under his arm, and he shoves the pizza carton closed to make space for it on the laptop. He opens it in an angle that makes it easy for Louis to see what he’s doing. When he opens soundcloud, logged in from a few days ago and never logged out, Louis gasps.

“No way,” Louis denies, “there’s no way. Nope.”

Zayn chuckles. “I don’t know how to prove to you that yes, I am. Do you want to hear the demos? An unreleased song?” Zayn winces. “Wait, I take that back, no unreleased songs. They’re terrible and embarrassing.”

Louis is the one imitating a fish now. He opens and closes his mouth a couple times, and if this entire situation weren’t this nerve wracking, Zayn would enjoy it.

As it was, Zayn has never met anyone who knows his music, he never shared it.

Louis swallows then. His eyes darken, and with purpose in his movements he gets up, rounds the table and stops when he stands between Zayn’s legs. He leans down, takes Zayn’s face in his hands – so  _ tender _ – and says, voice deeper than before – “I’m going to kiss you now. Okay?”

Zayn swallows. “Okay.”

Louis’ mouth is on him the next moment, determined and intense and desperate. Zayn finds he doesn’t mind. He tastes cigarettes and pizza on Louis’ lips, but Zayn probably tastes the same. Louis draws back before Zayn’s brain catches up with the fact that he can kiss  _ back. _

“Louis.”

“Zayn,” Louis says, something like wonder in his voice, something like love in his eyes. “God, I want to write with you so bad. I wanted to kiss you yesterday too, the moment you recognised  _ The Fault in Our Stars. _ And you… you wrote Icarus Interlude? Bloody hell.”

Zayn feels himself blush. “I wanted to kiss you yesterday, too,” he says, because how the fuck do you even respond to something like that? Who even confessed to people? Louis, apparently.

Pizza and music forgotten, Zayn stands and pushes Louis against the table, kissing him slowly and deeply. He doesn’t close his eyes, too caught in the way Louis’ eyelashes cast shadows on his cheeks, on the feeling of Louis’ hands on his back, and finally gives in to the urge to brush Louis’ hair out of his face. It’s stupidly soft. Louis moans against his lips, and all thought leaves Zayn.

And –

_ This, _ he thinks.  _ This is what Pablo Neruda put into words, this is what Rumi means, this is what lovers feel. _

  
  


Open Mic nights are usually more popular.

Zayn sits in the corner, a bit to the side of the small stage and the lonely mic on a round table. His coffee is long gone and paid for. The light is warm, it’s dark outside but the cafe’s interior is full of warm shades of colour.

A rainbow flag is beside a transgender flag on the wall, next to abstract paintings of flowers that faintly remind him of Monet’s Willows and Water Lilies. He doesn’t know what he’s waiting for, when his boyfriend slides into the seat next to him.

“Love,” Louis says, all mischievous smiles and bright blue eyes.

“Lou,” Zayn replies, leaning in for a quick kiss on the lips. “I thought you had work?”

“Took time off,” Louis smiles. “Thought I’d go to the nearest literature themed event around here and see if I find you, since you weren’t at home. Brought our friends.”

Liam, Niall and Harry enter the cafe just as Louis throws an arm around Zayn’s shoulders. Louis waves above his head, and Harry spots them first, breaking into a smile.

“Are you gonna sing something?” Liam asks, sitting on Zayn’s other side.

“I’m thinking about it,” Louis replies.

“I definitely will,” Niall laughs. “I grabbed my guitar the moment you said ‘open mic.’”

“Hmmm,” Harry hums. He looks at the mic, thoughtful.

Zayn smiles. He learns to breathe with hope, these days. Time passing is less an immovable wall that goes up and up and up, it’s more of a friendly neighbourhood hill, with trees – some of them losing their leaves every year, some of them being eaten by a stray deer, and some of them – some of them are evergreen.

His fingers itch for a cigarette, so he pulls out his phone and opens his notes app, scrolling through last week’s attempts at lyrics. Truthfully, he suspects he may find a home at a poetry slam. Between him and his boyfriend, Louis is the one who yearns for the melody. Zayn just wants to sing and feel the bass in his bones.

“I’ll go say something,” Zayn says, interrupting his friends who were discussing – something, coffee choices maybe, or the secrets of the universe.

“You got this!” Louis smiles, and the others cheer, too loud for the cafe.

Eyes turn toward him as he stands and walks up to the lonely mic. A waitress sends him an encouraging smile, and the crowd, small and patchy as it might be, cheers him on. He turns up the brightness on his phone, opens his chosen verse, and begins.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading.
> 
> -
> 
> References:
> 
> Fictional!Louis' song: [Louis Tomlinson - Kill My Mind (Official Video)](https://youtu.be/IzuvvjrUBEw) from Louis' first album, Walls (2020).
> 
> The quotes “It’s a metaphor, see: you put the killing thing right between your teeth but you don’t give it the power to do its killing,” “Pain demands to be felt,” and “My thoughts are stars I cannot fathom into constellations” are from the 2012 novel The Fault in Our Stars by John Green.
> 
> The song Fictional!Louis plays from Soundcloud is called [Come Whoever You Are, performed by Ana Hata and composed by Sudhananda in 2015](https://soundcloud.com/ana-hata-healing-art/come-come-whoever-you-are) and the lyrics are a [poem by Mewlana Jalaluddin Rumi (1207-1273).](https://allpoetry.com/Come,-Come,-Whoever-You-Are)
> 
> The next song Fictional!Louis plays is [ZAYN - Icarus Interlude (Audio),](https://youtu.be/6zWpkFiYrrI) from Zayn's second album Icarus Falls, 2018.
> 
> Fictional!Zayn references Pablo Neruda's poetry. [Neruda on Wikipedia](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pablo_Neruda) and [the poem I think of when I think of love poems.](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/49236/one-hundred-love-sonnets-xvii)
> 
> -
> 
> My [tumblr.](https://thespacebetweenworlds.tumblr.com/) Come say hi.


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